Behind the door lurks a Monster: Punk, politics and the President; a life growing up in the Falkland Islands

I miss the sound of children playing,
brightening up an otherwise
dull day - and the light of
a thousand nights - and the kisses,
of a million frogs, jumping;
I can be flippant in the face
of my own adversary. Hello, he’s
coming around, again.

I miss the thought of nothing,
whilst just waiting for you to
come in the door.

I miss the sound of the door opening,
I miss the sound of children playing,
laughing, talking, opening my door,
knocking down my wall,
of silence.


'The bus journey, across the Chilean frontier, took about five hours. I filmed, as I went along the road, telling the boys I would make a short movie and that they were in it, as the night before leaving Buenos Aires we had eaten together, at their favourite place, and I had captured that. Leaving a day early, to catch the plane, meant thirty six hours or so extra, in Punta Arenas. That would be okay. Somehow it felt like I was acclimatizing, going home bit by bit. Travelling to places and arriving quickly is never that great.   
In the departure lounge I waited an hour or so, with a single drink, for the aircraft to land. Punta Arenas reminded me of home, with its coloured houses and steep hills and the streets full of Japanese four by four vehicles. Then, the plane landed, and the lounge filled up with people in transit. I had sat with my back to everyone. That’s when I knew I was going home. I then waited, until everyone was on board, before I stood up and went to the gate.  
My two oldest sisters were at the airport to meet me. I had a lot to thank them for, because it could not have been easy, but they were adamant, that I was coming home, and if anyone had a problem then they would have them to contend with too.
There was the usual reaction, with my going, on the social media posts. There would have been some, perhaps, wanting to say something to me personally, given the chance. But why give anyone that? The next day we went fishing. As a family we always liked doing such things, grabbing drinks and food and clothing to keep warm and dry and driving off, across the camp*. That’s what life was about anyway, doing what you want.
There was so much that I could have thought about, while there, yet for some reason the thoughts never came. I did film, as I told the boys I would: my sister and I dancing together on the slope above where we had fished, the evening sun behind and a motorcycle going past, as well other things. And then the week was over, and to the airport again, with several people calling saying it was nice to see me back.
Making the short film, which I had finished at Michael’s, with the boys in the last shot back in Buenos Aires, was like putting my home in a box. Jacques would have said that for it to be art you had to take yourself out of it. He was right. I had just made something about going home. Sometimes art gets in the way.
When I began writing, in Puerto Madryn, in 2004, I had an idea, of what I wanted to do. But things change - some parts begin to have a life of their own and, like painting, it’s important that you let it take you someplace otherwise why do it. As well you hope it gets you closer to the truth. I’ve tried to let this happen. Some people will say it’s not a picture of the place they grew up in. I hope they are right.'  

Hampshire, England, July 2015

Prose. Published 2016.
Available on Amazon

Spanish translation.

Buenos Aires, 2012
Emece (Planeta).